


The Little Things You Do Together

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Friendship, Gen, POV Third Person Limited, Partnership, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 00:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: Ray wonders about certain habits he and Fraser have fallen into.  Fraser wonders why Ray is wondering.  It's all a little confusing.





	The Little Things You Do Together

**Author's Note:**

> I have been stuck on finishing/editing this story for so freakin' long, I can't even read it any more! I am hereby posting it and washing my hands of it. Hopefully it actually makes sense now.
> 
> Thanks to ride_4ever and mayamaia for beta reading various drafts, and to the gang at the [writing-ds](http://writing-ds.livejournal.com) LiveJournal comm for their assistance.

**1\. Brunch**

Fraser studies the menu, caught on the horns of the usual dilemma. Omelet and hash browns, or waffles with fruit? Savory or sweet?

He has no objection to brunch, in theory, but in practice, he finds it problematic. Though the meal ostensibly combines aspects of breakfast and lunch, it actually forces a choice between one and the other. Or else one ends up ordering too much food, and the leftovers don’t tend to travel or reheat well. (Not to mention that leftovers inevitably invite self-serving arguments from one’s lupine companion about the purpose of doggie bags.)

Glancing up, he notices that Ray, his own menu folded demurely on the table, is watching him. His partner’s expression is curious rather than exasperated, but there’s no sense in trying his patience unnecessarily. After all, there’s still the traditional argument over so-called maple syrup to come.

Fraser closes his menu decisively.

“Whatcha getting?” Ray asks.  
  
”The strawberry waffles,” says Fraser, committing himself. Schrödinger’s box has been opened, the cat is alive, brunch will be breakfast today.  
  
”Mm, those are good here,” Ray says as he flags down their waitress.  
  
The waffles, when they arrive, do indeed look delicious. There’s malt in the batter, the in-season strawberries are fragrant and plentiful, and the little silver jug contains actual maple syrup rather than imitation. Ray smirks as Fraser lowers the jug after sniffing it. Fraser tilts the jug at him in a mock toast.  
  
Ray lifts his own plate across the table and slides half his sausage-and-pepper omelet onto Fraser’s plate, mostly covering one of the waffles. Startled, Fraser looks down at breakfast _and_ lunch on one plate, and wonders why such an obvious and elegant solution has never occurred to him before.  
  
He opens his mouth to thank Ray, who has speared the second waffle in order to transfer it to his own plate. But when their eyes meet, Ray’s face goes suddenly red and he jerks his fork back so hastily that it shoots out of his grip and clatters to the floor. His expletive is muffled as he ducks under the table to retrieve it.  
  
”Sorry,” he mumbles, wiping the fork on his napkin. “I, uh, I wasn’t thinking.”

The reaction seems out of proportion to the breach of table manners, particularly given that Ray doesn’t ordinarily stand on ceremony with anyone and certainly not with Fraser. But then, Fraser doesn’t pretend to understand all the nuances, either of American custom or of the workings of his volatile partner’s mind.  
  
”I had trouble deciding, myself,” he says mildly, as he transfers the waffle to Ray’s plate and passes the syrup.

 

**2\. Calendar**

It’s only because he’s still mulling over the Waffle Incident, that the episode of the calendar makes any impression on Fraser at all.

He’s sitting at Ray’s desk in the bullpen, printing out some records from the computer, while Ray paces behind him, tethered by the telephone cord, listening intently and rapping out a question now and again. Fraser’s following Ray’s half of the conversation with one ear, but he’s also reviewing evidence in his own mind.

It’s true that Ray Vecchio would offer Fraser half a donut or ask, “Hey, you gonna finish those fries?”, but there was always a nominal negotiation involved. Huey and Dewey, from what Fraser has observed, jealously guard food from each other—which is not to say that they don’t eat each other’s food regularly, only that when they do, it’s an occasion for loud recriminations. The dynamic between Huey and Gardino back in the day was similar. For that matter, so was the dynamic between Ray Vecchio and his sister.

At this point, Fraser’s reverie is interrupted by Huey, who has stopped on his way out of the bullpen to tap Ray on the shoulder. Ray pantomimes _I’m on the phone here,_ but Huey talks to him anyway.

“Ray, man, can you swap me for my Sunday morning shift? My sister is coming to town with my new niece—sorry it’s short notice, I was going to ask you earlier, but you know how it goes.”

“I don’t know, can’t you—?”

“I’ve already asked Henderson and Martinez, listen, I’ll owe you one, just—“

“Fine, look I don’t even know if—could you hang on a second?” Ray’s struggling to carry on two conversations at once. “—No, just—just hang on, I gotta—all right, hold your horses—Hey, Fraser! Am I doing anything Sunday?”

“Not before three in the afternoon. You’re coaching at the gym, and then Mrs. Vecchio is expecting you to help with the sink, and to stay to dinner.”

“Right, yeah. Okay, Huey, I’ll do it, but I damn well pick which shift of mine you get, _and_ you owe me a favor.”

Ray turns his attention back to his phone call, Huey high-fives him and strides out with Dewey in his wake, and Fraser reaches into Ray’s vest pocket for his planner to jot down the new commitment before heading over to the printer. Completely unremarkable, and no one remarks upon it, including Fraser himself.

Until the end of Ray’s shift, when they’re planning to meet up the next morning to interview possible witnesses in connection with a series of muggings. Ray flips through his planner, then suddenly stops and frowns down at the pages. Wondering what’s caught his attention, Fraser glances over and sees his own neat printing under _Sunday_.

After a moment, Ray says, with his eyes still glued to the planner, “Hey Frase, uh, look, you’re not my secretary, okay? I mean, you know I know that, right?”

“Of course,” Fraser replies, faintly bewildered. “You were occupied. It was no trouble.”

“Okay, cool.” Ray flashes him a smile, apparently satisfied, but still not quite meeting his eyes. “Pick you up at 8:30 tomorrow?”

 

**3\. Laundry**

“No empty dryers,” Ray reports disgustedly as Fraser carefully transfers the last washer-full of clean, wet clothes onto the precarious pile in the plastic basket. “Look at this: half the washers empty and everyone standing around with their thumb in their ear, waiting for dryers. It always happens that way. You think they’d catch a clue and put in more dryers, but no.”

“It’s because the dryer cycle is ten minutes longer than the washer cycle,” says Fraser.

“Yeah, and whose bright idea was that?”

Fraser speculates about the calculations necessary to determine the average amount of time it takes water to evaporate from wet cloth at a given air temperature, but stops in the middle of a sentence when he realizes that Ray is no longer listening. Not out of impatience with what Fraser’s saying, either; he’s staring intently at the basket of freshly-cleaned laundry as though it contains the vital clue to a murder case.

“Ray?” Fraser inquires.

“Why are you here?” Ray demands.

“To do laundry,” Fraser answers, perplexed at the question.

“Is this maybe some kind of Canadian thing?”

“What?”

“Doing laundry with your partner.”

“Not that I’m aware of. Ray Vecchio sometimes used to give me a ride to the laundromat or the grocery store.” It seemed like a natural part of their friendship at the time; it still does. But then, despite his habitual complaining, Ray Vecchio accepted a wide range of eccentric behavior from Fraser. “Is that. . .un-American?”

“Nah, you two were tight, that makes sense. . .plus you were new to the city, and you don’t have a car. . .” Ray trails off, now frowning at the washing machines.

“What’s wrong?” Fraser asks.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just. . .” Ray flails his hands for a moment, then points at the nearest washer as though it proves some sort of point. “You put your clothes in with mine. In the same machine. All mixed together.”

“Well, yes. It makes sorting the colors more efficient. Neither of us has enough white clothing to make up a full load.”

“Sure, but I normally just wash everything all together.”

“Washing in warm water and rinsing in cold help keep the dye in colored clothing from fading, while to keep whites pristine, hot water and a judicious amount of bleach are—”

“Did Vecchio share a washer with you?” Ray demands.

“I believe his family did their laundry communally,” Fraser replies. “And, of course, he had his suits dry-cleaned.”

“But would he—never mind, forget it.” Ray shakes his head, as if to clear it. He sighs. “Look, it’s not you, I’m the one who keeps. . .”

“I’m not sure I understand,” says Fraser, when Ray fails to finish his sentence.

But he does understand that there is. . .something to understand, here. It’s the difference between giving a friend a lift to the laundromat, and washing his underwear with your own. The difference between coordinating schedules with your partner and keeping his calendar. The difference between sharing a meal and eating off each other’s plates.

Ray gestures inarticulately at the laundry basket, at Fraser and himself.

“I don’t do it on purpose, I just. . .sometimes I forget who you _are_ , or something. That I can’t just expect you to—That doesn’t bug you?”

Fraser considers the basket of clean clothing.

“You don’t separate your laundry by color, Ray.”

“I just _said_ that.”

“So, I think you know exactly who I am.”

“You’re the guy who bleaches his underwear?” There’s a glint of irony behind Ray’s scowl.

“Precisely.”

“And bleaches _my_ underwear?”

“Well—”

“And memorizes my calendar? And answers my phone? And shares his waffles with me?” The humor vanishes as Ray’s voice rises in pitch and volume.

“Yes. Unless you’d rather I didn’t. . . ?”

“Unless _I’d_ rather—” Ray flings his hands wide in outrage. “You saying you _want_ me to treat you like my _wife_?”

Ray snaps his mouth shut, pink flooding his cheeks, his eyes darting around the room, threat-assessing. However, a discreet glance of his own assures Fraser that no one other than himself has noticed Ray’s outburst or the word that has turned him temporarily to a pillar of salt. Fraser takes a moment to assess his own internal state, and finds that nothing much has changed, except for the satisfaction of a puzzle understood. And the need to allay Ray’s unease.

“I’m saying. . .” He hesitates, unsure what Ray needs or wants to hear. “I thought you were treating me like your partner.”

“Well. . .well, yeah, me too, but. . .but there’s a _difference_ between partners and—and—”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Fraser quietly.

Ray stops spluttering as though a switch has been thrown.

“No, I know,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Fraser reassures him. “But, you know, my father is fond—that is, he used to be fond of saying that a partnership is like a marriage. Admittedly, most of his advice was fairly useless, if not downright incomprehensible. But every once in a while he stumbled onto wisdom. I suppose if one talks enough it’s bound to happen eventually.”

Ray frowns, then rubs the back of his neck before asking, “Did he, uh. . .like, how did he mean?”

“Well, the specific example he gave was about arguing over who put the butter dish away empty.” Fraser licks his lower lip thoughtfully. “I never did ask what use he and Buck had for a butter dish on wilderness patrol.”

And Ray releases a bright crack of laughter. The frown vanishes, along with the tension in his wiry body. Fraser blinks at the sudden transformation, but doesn’t question it. He simply smiles as Ray bends to pick up the basket with its teetering pile of damp wash.

“Well, butter, you know…standard Arctic rations, right? Obviously they hadda keep it somewhere.” Ray hefts the load and heads for the dryers, darting a glance over his shoulder at Fraser, who follows on his heels, gathering up stray socks while explaining the difference between a wilderness patrol and an Arctic expedition.

 

**4\. Dinner**

“Really, Ray, I don’t see why you’re making such an issue out of—”

“Because you’re _wrong,_ ” Ray insists, shouldering through the door Fraser holds open for him. “There’s no way she could’ve been at the club at midnight _and_ at Lewison’s apartment at quarter of one. Not without a teleporter—”

“Helicopter,” Fraser suggests as they slide into the booth. He slides one menu across to Ray, who snaps it open to punctuate his retort: “Yeah, sure, how ‘bout a space shuttle while we’re making shit up?”

“I’m not saying there _was_ a helicopter involved, I’m just pointing out that it’s not technically impossible for her to have traveled from one location to the other within the timeframe—”

“Technically, fine, whatever, but look, even if she teleported, it doesn’t make any sense. She’s got no connection to the Clancey boys, she’s got no motive—she’s the one person in this whole mess who’s _worse_ off with Lewison dead.”

“Yes, granted, it seems that way, but the perfume—”

“But Martin. Motive, means, and an alibi you could drive a truck through. Coffee, cream, two sugar,” Ray adds to the waitress who has just arrived at their booth, then jerks his thumb at Fraser. “Black for him, and a glass of water.”

“Sure thing, Hon,” she says. “You guys ready to order? We’ve got a spinach salad special today, with Cajun grilled chicken. And we also have fish’n’chips, with haddock.”

“Those both sound good,” Fraser comments.

“We’ll get one of each,” Ray tells the waitress. “That way, the spinach and the deep fry’ll cancel each other out, right?”

“That’s a unique theory of nutrition, Ray,” says Fraser.

“Not as unique as your theory of how Lana Sullivan could have _teleported_ halfway across town to—”

“Well, then perhaps she left the club earlier than she says. I definitely smelled the same perfume on the—”

“Oh, well, fine, if you _smelled_ it—”

The waitress rolls her eyes good-naturedly as she relieves them of their menus.

“I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

“Thank you kindly,” they say in unison.


End file.
